Undesirable Puberty
by Sociially-Diisoriiented
Summary: The symptoms snuck up on him.


The symptoms snuck up on him.

A sickly sort of yellow undertone to his skin? Well, he'd always been pale, and when his skin turned pasty and clammy, Draco thought nothing of it.

He'd been ordered by the Dark Lord to kill one of the greatest wizards who ever lived, or else his entire family would die.

The stress would get to anyone.

Besides, he hadn't been out of doors since the school year began; he was either in the library or isolated in the Room of Requirements. Murder didn't plan itself and it certainly didn't leave much room for meandering through the tulips, either.

The bags under his eyes? Well, he'd barely slept a wink in nearly eight months; the vanishing cabinet was proving more difficult to repair than he'd expected. The magic connecting the two cabinets was unlike anything he'd been taught at school or come across in the library.

Draco's two pathetic attempts at killing Dumbledore to date—the cursed necklace and the poisoned mead—had convinced him that his only means of success was to bring the Death Eaters into Hogwarts, creating chaos and confusion, allowing him to...what? He didn't know. Sneak up on Dumbledore. Or something.

Draco hadn't thought that far ahead. He couldn't. The Vanishing Cabinet required his total focus, undivided concentration and impassioned commitment. His grades had deteriorated steadily this second term, but Draco wasn't concerned. If he succeeded in his task, the Dark Lord would be pleased beyond measure and Draco doubted he'd care much about his eventual NEWT score.

If he failed, he'd be dead.

So, his pallid skin and the bags, Draco could explain.

Even the reduced appetite, he could explain. Stress did that to you, he'd read. It had started innocently enough, a strange odour he had never noticed before seemed to linger in the air of the Great Hall. At first, the odour only perturbed him, like a sliver in his quill thumb that refused to come out. Eventually, the odour became so strong that he could barely hold back the tide of nausea that rolled through him whenever he entered the room to eat.

It had been a sad day, indeed, the day he had put a spoonful of his favourite dish—mashed pumpkin whipped in decadent amounts of heavy cream, butter, salt, and garlic—in his mouth and almost spat it back out onto his plate. He'd only just had the self-restraint to swallow; it had burned going down his throat. He thought he'd die. And he'd broken out in hives the next day that had stayed for a week.

Had he not been trying not to draw attention to himself this year, he would have gone to Madam Pomfrey to be examined and maybe even requested that his meals be served to him in the Slytherin Common Room. As it was, he braced himself, tightened his core, closed off his throat, and marched into the Great Hall, forced down as much bland white rice as he could as quickly as possible, and fled.

So, the sickly paleness, the bags, and the strange loss of appetite, Draco could understand and explain. Stress. Probably even depression. They did weird things to your body, he'd read.

What he could not understand, and what he could not explain, was the morning he saw Pansy Parkinson and wanted to take her around the waist, plunge his teeth into her lovely white neck and drink her blood.

The terror rivalled his fear of the Dark Lord.

The desire was so strong, so visual and so vivid that Draco had been shocked into immobility. He could feel the sensation of her skin giving way and piercing under his sharp fangs; he could taste the sweet thickness of her pure blood coating his tongue; he could feel the warm liquid tickling his throat as it warmed his inside.

He felt like a parched man who had been handed a lifesaving glass of cold, sweet water.

Goosebumps broke out over his entire body. Draco ran out of the Common Room and locked himself in the bathroom. He bared his teeth in front of the mirror.

No, no fangs.

And yet, the sensation was still there. His heart, hammering with terror, was also stretching with longing: the heavy beating of a disappointed desire and the irregular palpitation of a terrified boy. Draco had never known such two emotions could coexist at the same time.

He felt simultaneously defeated and exhilarated. And confused.

What in the world was happening to him?

There was nothing left for him to do, but to send his mother an owl. It would be a Hogsmeade weekend the following week, and Draco needed answers. He could not dedicate himself to his task for the Dark Lord with these … bizarre urges.

Draco refused to acknowledge what the symptoms pointed toward. There was just no way. It was impossible.

* * *

"Oh, dear," Narcissa said when Draco had finally related to her everything that had been happening. It had been awkward and long-winded and slightly evasive, but he had finally gotten it, out and now he watched as his mother's face turned from one of neutral listening to guilty nervousness.

It was not the look Draco had been hoping to see.

"Oh, dear," Narcissa said again.

"Mother…"

"Oh, Draco."

"Mother!"

Narcissa sighed. "I had so hoped nothing of the sort would happen. You've always looked so much like your father. And the tapestry never showed anything untoward. Always showed you as the heir…I just assumed..."

His mother's ramblings quickly connected his mind and Draco's heart sank, and his heart exploded.

"Mother, are you telling me that I am not a Malfoy?"

Narcissa waved a hand away. "Oh, don't be silly, you're your father's spitting image. And, besides, the tapestry wouldn't lie. To alter magic that old, it would take a stronger warlock than our kind has seen in centuries."

Draco slammed his fist down on the table. His mother's nonsensical ramblings were getting to be too much. He couldn't tell if he was enraged, confused or terrified. All he knew was that he wanted to take the tea cup in front of him and throw it against the wall.

It was a good thing he'd had the foresight to request a private room for this conversation.

"Mother, tell me straight. Am I a vampire? Is it even remotely possible?"

Narcissa looked at Draco for a long few moments. It was an unwavering stare, not unkind, but not exactly warm either. Draco knew she was debating, strategizing over what to reveal.

"I was very young when I married your father and rebellious, too. My parents had spoiled me, in their own way, and I didn't quite understand that the world did not revolve around me and my romantic fantasies. Your father was always a private man, but when we first married I confused his reserve for arrogance and coldness, and I resented it him for it. I wanted to be courted, to be swept off my feet, to be led into adventure."

Draco knew what was coming next. He didn't want to hear it, but he couldn't stop listening. He stared at his mother, disgusted but transfixed.

"Eventually, I was." Narcissa actually had the nerve to smile. It would barely noticeable to one who did not know her—a nearly imperceptible lift of the facial muscles around her cheekbones—but, Draco knew her. He gritted his teeth. How dare she!

"I will spare you the details."

"Yes, please do," Draco growled. He sat back in his chair, one hand still on the table, which he kept clenched as a tight fist. "So, you betrayed Father."

Narcissa straightened noticeably in her chair. She levelled Draco with her coldest stare and Draco felt his resolve waver. "Yes, I did. It was the only time, but I will not hide from you that it was also the best love I've ever received from a man."

Draco averted his eyes; his ear burned hotter than his throat had when he'd swallowed the mashed pumpkin. He wished he had never contacted his mother, kept this all to himself.

But, no, he had to know.

"Mother, please." The voice he heard come out of him infuriated him. He sounded like an embarrassed little boy.

Narcissa sighed and relaxed. "I am sorry, Draco, that we must be having this conversation. But, what I've always dread has apparently come to pass. I must be honest with you. Yes, this man was a Vampire. And it appears that, while you are most definitely you father's son, you must be his son, at least a little bit."

"But, I don't understand! How is that possible?"

Narcissa shook her head. "There is much that we do not know about Vampires. They are a very old creature and they have always been very, very isolated. The theory I have heard about that seems to me the most valid is that they are parasitic. Perhaps, what happened is that his parasite attached to my egg, to be developed during my next cycle of fertilization. Perhaps the parasite stayed in my body until your father's sperm came along. I do not know."

Draco wanted to die. He did not want to think of his mother's fertilization cycle or of his father's sperm. He did not want to think of a parasite living inside of him that prevented him from eating delicious mashed pumpkin.

"So...what does that make me?"

Narcissa sipped her tea as she thought. "Perhaps a human with vampire tendencies, much like a wizard wounded by a werewolf when human form."

"I did not melt when I walked to meet you today," Draco pointed out.

"Well, it is quite overcast, with very little sun coming through the clouds."

"And my newfound penchant for blood?" Draco didn't mean to sound accusatory, but he could not help himself. He resented his mother and the burden she had placed on him. If only she hadn't been such a naive, wanton...he could not finish the thought. She was still his mother, after all.

"Draco, listen to me."

Draco raised his eyes and was shocked at the pain his mother's face. He had seen her this distraught only once before: when the Dark Lord had ordered him to kill Dumbledore, as punishment for Lucius having failed him.

"No one can know. No one."

Draco swallowed hard, but nodded without comment.

"The Dark Lord has allied himself with certain creatures for now, but I have no doubt that his tolerance will not last very long past his victory. You must never let on about what you now feel. You are a pureblood, always. Do you understand me?"

Numbly, Draco nodded. He understood the good sense of her words, but he suddenly felt faint.

His mother sounded far away, she looked so small sitting across the table from him, as though she were a mile away.

"This changes nothing, Draco."

Draco felt himself nod; he saw himself rise. "Yes, Mother, you are right," he heard himself reply. "I have to go."

He stumbled out of The Three Broomsticks and into the cold, wet April afternoon.

He hadn't been completely honest with his mother earlier. He did feel different being outside. His skin felt tight and uncomfortable, like it was not quite elastic enough to fit over his skeleton, and his eyes felt fragile looking out at a world that was just on the verge of being too bright. And yet, as his mother had pointed out, it was a cloudy day with little sunlight piercing through the clouds.

Draco walked back to Hogwarts in a daze.

How in the world would he cope when the full force of summer arrived?

How in the world would he cope when the Dark Lord turned his murderous gaze on creatures like himself?

And how in the world would he cope if anyone ever suspected him of not being the pureblood he had always thought he was?

There was only one thing Draco knew with certainty: his mother had been wrong about one thing.

This changed everything.

* * *

**Word Count: **2,014 (google docs)

**Prompt:** A character discovers they are/is discovered to be part creature (Quidditch League Fanfiction Competition)


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